Ballerina
by Darren's Wings
Summary: They saw her lose every family member she had. They watched as her life crumbled. But only one person ever cared. Oneshot, MxE. All reviewers favourited!


They saw her at her best friend's funeral, standing in morose silence against one bland wall. They watched as she leaned over the side of her best friend's coffin, her sunshine-coloured curls swinging forward to hide her blank, cold expression. But she wasn't supposed to be here.

They saw her flee from the altar without looking back. They watched as she screamed bloody murder like a madwoman, eyes wider than dinner plates, rushing down the aisle with trampled rose petals and fraying white ribbons in her wake. But who knew the ballerina's wedding dress could turn so dark and gray?

They saw her run from the cadaverous church to the gaily decorated funeral. They watched as her fingers closed over Christine's cold, stiff, pale hand. But no one bothered to try to stop the man who tried to marry her as he pressed a knife to her throat and dragged her away to lock her up with those termed mentally ill.

They saw her gazing out the asylum's frosted windows, crying a single tear each day. They watched as she slowly ripped one piece of her dove-gray gown off until bedraggled tatters was the only phrase to describe its remains. But no one cared when she escaped the legato mutters of the insane.

They saw her drift through the streets with the sort of expression a lost, frightened child searching for family in a haze of caliginous confusion might wear. They watched as she sang to herself, huddled in a dark corner of the street. But no one bothered to ask her if she needed help learning life's notes.

They saw her dance through the streets, her wedding gown's shreds fluttered like a dying butterfly's last, feeble attempts to survive in the frozen breeze. They watched as she stole a silver blade from the smith and used it to slit open the throats of those who might talk to her. But it was no one's fault when she killed the head of the nearby ballerina school, when she killed a woman named Giry who pleaded with her to spare her own mother.

They saw her turn the silver blade to red. They watched as Madame Giry's staring-eyed body fell to the ground. But no one knew anything about the town coroner—he was on vacation, perhaps; they spoke of it like the weather—and Giry's body began to rot.

They saw her continue to dance without a respectable audience; an eerie pirouette, a plié dipped so low her gown dragged on loose pebbles or other debris, an arabesque held too long to be healthy, so long she barely stayed erect—certainly none of it was graceful. They watched as her tatters turn to threads in many shades of gray, many frills and folds of forgotten follies. But only one listened to the song she sang in her high, haunted voice, in the minor key of lonely pain.

They saw a man in a dusty tuxedo walk towards her; a pure white mask hid over half his face, and his hair was slicked back. They watched as she readied the silver knife. But he took off his mask, and the blade fell to the dust.

They saw her listen to his gentle voice, coaxing. They watched as she screamed at the sight of his face. But no one tried to protect her when he swept her up in a staccato eighth note kiss.

They saw the ballerina break away and snatch up the knife. They watched as she flounced away, her once-golden curls a mass of gray-and-brown mats. But everyone noticed how she hadn't killed him; no one noticed her quiet sobs and shivering shoulders.

They saw her close her eyes in finality, saw the red blade fall from her nerveless fingers. They watched as the man with eyes that showed the deep, sincere sorrow of one who has long given up sanity, the man with a mask that almost but not quiet hid the shimmering tears slowly sliding down his cheek, walk over to her dark corner. But they stopped watching and seeing when he cradled her dead body in his arms, kissed her cold flesh, straightened the last few strands of dark, once-light ribbon.

Still, they heard the thump of the knife as it fell and heard the choked moan of the dying man. They felt the silent scream and whispered wish.

But no one troubled themselves to fetch the coroner to clean up the annoyance of a mess of two bodies in the dark corner of the streets by the opera house.


End file.
